Upon the mountain's edge with light touch resting,
There a brief while the globe of splendour sits
       &nbspAnd seems a creature of the earth; but soon
       &nbsp       &nbspMore changeful than the Moon,
To wane fantastic his great orb submits,
Or cone or mow of fire: till sinking slowly
Even to a star at length he lessens wholly.


Abrupt, as Spirits vanish, he is sunk!
A soul-like breeze possesses all the wood.
       &nbspThe boughs, the sprays have stood
As motionless as stands the ancient trunk!
But every leaf through all the forest flutters,
And deep the cavern of the fountain mutters.